


Goya

by zombified_queer



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Hallucinogens, Implied Cannibalism, M/M, Murder Family, Surreal, Therapy, and they lived happily ever after
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-11
Updated: 2018-11-11
Packaged: 2019-08-22 05:05:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16591376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zombified_queer/pseuds/zombified_queer
Summary: Goya: The sensation of disbelief that comes from exceptional storytelling.Will Graham loses himself in a fabrication of family, a romance and tragedy both.





	Goya

The teacup falls to the floor, glass shattering on the tiled floor. Hannibal looks disappointed, moving Will carefully out of danger before sweeping it all up.

Whatever Hannibal's given him, Will feels it snaking up his spine, flooding his system with warmth and loosening him up. At the same time, his brain’s fogged over, unable to think, only experience, only feel. Hannibal’s hand cups his face, just gently guiding Will’s head up. They lock stares.

“This time,” Hannibal purrs, “we won’t be interrupted.”

Will can’t understand the words. He knows that he and Hannibal are here and Hannibal's getting Will into a wheelchair, but he doesn’t know what could interrupt them. Why would someone interrupt them? Will feels safe here with Hannibal, maybe too sluggish to vocalize it.

And then he’s moving. Dark halls laid with cold tile contort around him. He’s dimly aware of being pushed through the kitchen, clean like an operating room, the steel shine of the fridge blinding him.  
Hannibal wheels Will into the dining room, the intimate nook off the kitchen. It’s bright, too bright. The gold tinsel sears Will’s eyes. The garlands and wreaths some small comfort with their green foliage. The Christmas carols blur into warm music, soft noise in the background as all the words slur together. Hannibal gets Will situated at the table.

Hannibal takes to carving a hen, the knife moving slowly through the white flesh, a year of carving before Will’s very eyes.

Abigail’s there too.

She’s smiling, her scarf absent from her throat. The e scar on her skin her scar only faintly visible, a sliver of white, the same as the virgin snowdrifts outside. It isn’t his fault, Will realizes. She turns, hair flowing with the movement, and grins at Will, eyes half-closing with sheer glee to see him again.

Absently, she goes to brush her hair out of her face, tuck it behind her ear, but the ear’s missing. Will’s chest constricts, he can't breathe for a month.

“Car accident,” is what comes out of her mouth to explain it away.

Will’s not convinced. It looks too clean.

“Will?” Hannibal’s voice guiding him back the surface, to lucidity.

“I’m fine.” It comes out slurred, all wrong. He doesn’t want his family to think he’s an alcoholic.

Hannibal serves the hen, white meat on white porcelain. Will looks down, the chicken becoming Abigail’s ear. He trembles all over, nearly knocking his glass of water over.

“Dad?”

Will looks up. Abigail’s wide-eyed with fear. Fear for him, not of him.

“I’m fine,” Will repeats. It’s all the words his mouth will make. _I’m fine. I’m fine._

_We’re fine._

Black water floods in under the doors. Hannibal and Abigail, if they can see it, don’t pay attention to the stains thrown about. It rushes it, hungry to claim every uninhabited space for itself, to drown and destroy. And once it splashes on the cabinets, running thinner along the wood, Will understands it’s not black but red. Blood. Gallons and gallons of it.

To his left, Hannibal mentions plans for dinner for the week, possibly going the opera to celebrate their engagement.

To his right, Abigail chatters about school, her ups and down with grades, her new friends, her boyfriend.

Will understands. He lets the blood wash over all of them. It bathes them. It cleans them.

* * *

“Kelsey, you know you can ask for help if you’re struggling with the English Comp essays,” Abigail tells her friend, the two of them nestled in the back-seat.

“She’s right,” Will offers. “Abigail’s the best when it comes to essay help.”

Kelsey brushes a strand of blonde hair out of her face, crosses her arms, mock-exasperation. “I guess so.”

“You could come over to our house for dinner,” Will says. “Hannibal won’t mind the extra company.”

Abigail nods. “He always looks lonely, sort of.”

“I don’t wanna be a bother,” Kelsey says, picking at her sweater.

Will turns into the college’s parking lot to drop the girls off. “Think it over. I always thought a good meal and a good tutor helped me in college.”

Kelsey gets out of the car, still unsure. “Thanks for the ride, Mister Lecter.”

“It’s nothing.”

“See you later, Dad,” Abigail says, hopping out.

Will watches them head up the steps, off to their morning class. He’s grateful Abigail’s adjusting, that she can have a spring semester, that she has friends.

His phone rings. Pulling it from his coat pocket, he smiles to see the picture of Hannibal pop up on the screen. Sliding it to answer, Will lifts the phone to his ear.

“Will. For dinner, I was thinking something incorporating a bit of ginger.”

Will smiles at the sound of things sizzling in the background, Hannibal always makes meals like he makes love to Will: slow, careful, practiced.

“Will?”

“I prefer my coffee blonde,” Will says, using their little code. He glances back up the steps of te college. “I think Abigail might want to have a friend over for dinner.”

“Shall I set another place at the table?”

“Maybe tonight,” Will says. “But the girl’s polite. She’ll probably say she’s eaten before coming over.”

Hannibal hums on the other end, thinking. “It would be prudent to be polite.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

“Darling.”

Will sits up straighter in his seat, though it feels a bit silly and he knows Hannibal can’t see him. “Yes?”

“I think we could do ginger tonight,” Hannibal says. “I know American colleges have dreadful food.”

“Testing the waters?”

“In a way.” The heavy sound of the cleaver coming down on Hannibal’s end. “Testing the meat. Making sure it is of quality deserving for the table.”

“I’ll see you soon,” Will says.

Hannibal always hangs up first. It’s routine.

Will pauses for a moment, looking down at the band of gold on his left hand. For a moment, he thinks its splattered with red, but he rubs at it, finding the red had just been a trick of the light.

He starts up the car, making the long drive home.


End file.
